I knew the coast in this area was prone to (famous for?) fog, but I didn't know quite how it would be or feel or look or move.
And I was totally mesmerized.
Depending on elevation and distance from the coast, the fog fell and rose and blew, appeared and disappeared so abruptly I almost couldn't believe it.
Among it at its thickest, I knew exactly how I would spend my mornings if I lived here. An early morning walk on the cold sand by the ocean, or a run through trees like this, unable to see very far ahead, breath visible, listening to the birds wake up and the sound of my own feet on the dirt road. Then at home, something warm to drink in the kitchen, the newspaper, a warm sweater. Maybe some jazz piano coming through the speakers in the next room.
The more I describe this fictional morning, the more I want it to be real.
I stopped at lighthouse No. 2 when I was almost to my campsite for the night. This one was awesome.
A short hike up the hill took me by this amazing white house with a red roof, and I immediately wanted to live in it. The lighthouse shared the same color scheme, and its vantage point was immense indeed. The fog made for a dramatic overlook, though -- scrub and brush vanishing into... nothingness... as the fog obscured the ocean several hundred feet below.